


I Wanna Hold Your (Severed) Hand

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Halloween, Humor, Intimate Healing, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Trapped in a Freezer, a touch of angst, body heat trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 13:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21198176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: It's All Hallows' Eve and John is having a quiet pint with Lestrade when Sherlock swoops in to whisk his partner away to an old mansion with family secrets and a recent murder to solve. What transpires is a chilling tale of the two trapped inside a freezer with only one way out.Oh, what will they do to get warm? Hold hands? (and well, other body parts).Established platonic relationship. After S4. First person POV JohnArtwork done for me for Fandom Trumps Hate by ironmanstark on tumblr. Also this Halloween story prompted by Chriscalledmesweetie.Amazing beta by recentlyfolded. Thank you for going through and cleaning up my silly mistakes and pushing me to show the reader more.





	I Wanna Hold Your (Severed) Hand

_From the Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson_

_Post Private_

_31 October 2019_

So there I was about to have a drink with Lestrade. I even had the pint to my lips when Sherlock whisked in from the street, took my hand, and pulled me off the stool. And where did we go? Straight into a cab, where Sherlock went immediately into that mind palace of his. Next thing I know we're dropped off at a small, private airfield to the sound of the waiting a sleek, black helicopter already warming up for us.

"Sherlock, what?" I'd asked for about the twentieth time.

Sherlock's hair was blowing around and he looked more like a mad scientist than his usual posh detective look. As tight-lipped as ever, he simply nodded at that and every other question I asked, never actually answering—not that I would have been able to hear much over the roar of the chopper.

I climbed inside behind Sherlock and nodded to our pilot, who smiled back and waved at us. He was a striking bloke, reminding me of a silver-haired Tom Cruise. He was skilled—that we found out pretty quickly. He brought us up flying backwards to avoid another chopper in front of us, and once clear, spun us around. My stomach dropped. The pilot gave us a wink, then lifted us into the sky on our side, blades whooshing and whirling. What a rush! It certainly felt like something out of a Mission Impossible movie as we spun around and headed up and over London.

I gave up trying to make any sense of it and just sat back and enjoyed the rest of the ride. It was late afternoon and a rare clear day that revealed Big Ben, the Tower of London, and busy streets below in glorious clarity. We headed east with the sun behind us. 

We landed with the sky painted bright orange, and I shaded my eyes from the glare of the sun's last burning rays. I gave the pilot a crisp salute goodbye and jumped out, ducking under the whirling blade as we sprinted across the billowing grass. As it took off, the long shadow of the chopper distorted into a gigantic dragon. What? Did Sherlock drag me out to the country to battle Smaug? I think the day was getting to me. Halloween always seems to do that.

I'd seen one too many bloody ax-in-the-head costumes already today. The old manor in the distance definitely helped to set the spooky mood. It reminded me a Dean Koontz book cover. I asked Sherlock where we were, and he gave me an eyeroll with his shrug.

\-------------------

"It's about time you told me why we're here. I'm not taking another step until you do," I said as we continued walking through an old graveyard on our way to the manor. Why the place was even moated! All we needed now was the ghost of Ann Radcliffe to waltz out and greet us.

"Why, murder, of course," he smiled.

So, not Dean Koontz. Gothic novel it is, then.

"How old is this place? Middle Ages?"

"Close to it," Sherlock answered.

I stopped dead in front of one of the tombstones. "Sherlock, did you see the name on this?" I pointed.

"Yes. Family name."

"It's more than that. Look at the name on it. Really look."

"I see it, John. Have you known me to miss something so simple?"

"That's Frankenstein, Sherlock. As in _Mary Shelley's_ Frankenstein."

"There were Frankensteins long before she happened to write that piece of fiction, and there will be Frankensteins long after."

I turned back to the manor. "It looks still as death." Although the grounds looked tidy, no light illuminated the windows. "Does someone actually live here?" I asked.

"Don't be daft," he said. "Why else would we be walking in that direction?"

"And I suppose their name is Frankenstein."

"It's only a name. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Your name is John Watson. A name is of little consequence. It serves merely as a label."

"Right," I laughed. "And yours is a girl's name."

He shrugged and snugged up his collar. He was always saying things like this to me when in reality, a name is one of the most important things if not _the_ most important. He was obviously enjoying poking at me a bit.

I stopped. "You need to tell me what this is all about, or I'm absolutely not taking another step."

"Don't be daft." He actually began to pull me along by the front of my jacket toward the old manor.

I grabbed his wrist and yanked it away.

"You're serious?" He looked up into the dark. He grabbed my hand.

"Deadly serious."

"We're here about the murder," Sherlock said. He gave my hand a squeeze, then let go. "I already told you that."

Sherlock huffed and grumbled under his breath as we continued through the family graveyard and across the moor toward the manor, but he also had a bounce in his step. He was far too happy for this to be anything but one of Sherlock little games.

"Dammit, Sherlock!" I had to run to catch up with him again.

"Reminds me of some of the old horror movies I loved. I half expect the ghost of Bela Lugosi to jump out at us," I said.

Sherlock shook his head. "No ghosts here."

I wondered what sort of mischief Sherlock was up to. He had a penchant for the macabre on any day. And this was Halloween, celebration of the macabre.

But _Frankenstein? _Really, Sherlock.

Over the years, I've had cadaver feet in my bed, faux-blood oozing out of my toothpaste tube, and pickled eyeballs in my pork pie. I doubted this was about an unsolved murder. More like an elaborate game to terrify me on—as he always put it—All Hallow's Eve.

The manor was most impressive, I'll give him that. It was more of a castle, and the massive iron gates stood open for us. As we approached, my heart thumped and blood pumped. I should be chilled, but adrenaline had taken over.

As we started across the bridge, Sherlock's sharp steps caused his shoes to echo across the moor behind us. I swear he was doing that on purpose just to add to the ambiance since mine sounded hollow as they struck the wide planks.

He stopped in front of the massive double doors and stared into the eyes of the lion's -head knocker. It was roughly the size of the real thing.Sherlock took the hinged bottom jaw of the lion in hand and rapped. His hand thrust inside the lion's savage maw was itself enough to give a person nightmares, truth be told.

Footfalls echoed from within and the door cracked opened. I held my breath. Would it be Dracula? Frankenstein's monster? Or at least some sort of Night of the Living Dead zombie that Sherlock had conjured up to terrify me?

Disappointingly, a middle-aged woman stood there, holding the door in her tiny hands, head peaking around it.

"Come in," she said and motioned us in as she swung the door wide.

Sherlock strode through, and I behind him.

She stepped back stiffly from the doorway to reveal a woman who looked like she had come out of another time. Short brown hair was tamed into tight waves with one lock that dipped down over her left eyebrow. She was buttoned up tight in a dated grey wool suit that smelled of mothballs. The large scarab brooch that she wore on her collar looked very old—a family piece—silver with gold and what looked to be sapphires and rubies.

If her clothing choices weren't enough to scare the dead, her vacant eyes and clammy handshake were. Sherlock introduced us and her surname was, indeed, Frankenstein. Her first name was Marilyn.

She ushered us through the large entryway and stared up at the staircase. We stood behind her, both looking up to see what had drawn her gaze. She seemed to change her mind, though, and began to lead us through a long hallway, deeper into the building.

The old place was lived-in, albeit not well kept up. I couldn't think they had much of a housekeeping staff or even someone to take things like her old suit to the cleaners.

As for other modernisations, the manor was much like our hostess: dusty, with cobwebs about. The old gas lights that lined the walls had been converted to electric, but the light they cast was no better than the candles and lamplight of a Victorian home. The flicker of shadows obscured and played tricks on my eyes; furniture loomed like goblins covered in ghostly sheets.

"I'm so glad you could come," said our hostess. "Could I have Ellen take your coats?"

Since I had on a warm jumper, I held out my leather jacket to Ellen, the woman who had opened the door for us and still followed. Sherlock was wearing one of those thin silk shirts of his that barely stayed buttoned. He shook his head and kept his Belstaff.

Marilyn held a piece of paper in her hand. She looked down, referring to it as though what it contained were especially complex.

"My father was beside himself." Her voice was unemotional, business-like. "He instructed me that if there ever were a problem to call Mycroft Holmes. Daddy said Mr. Holmes owed him a tremendous favor, what with that nasty scandal over a certain Parliament member last October."She looked up from her note.

"I don't recall any scandal last October," I said.

"Neither do I," she nodded, as though that explained anyything.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

To be sure, it was an odd response on her part, but I decided to ignore it. Maybe she was just being eccentric. With that last name, she'd almost be fated to be a bit peculiar.

Getting back to my puzzlings on how and why we were here, the answer occurred to me. "Of course!" I said. "This is all a part of Mycroft's cloak-and-dagger shenanigans."

Sherlock sighed. His lips literally flapped in exasperation as he did it as if to say, "You idiot."

My previous frustration with this whole mysterious performance was starting to anger.

"I should have known as soon as I saw that helicopter who was behind this. And you, Sherlock. Why would you do any sort of favour for your brother?"

"Where did you find the body?" Sherlock asked, completely ignoring me.

I almost missed her looking down at her note again. This was even more puzzling..

"We found him in the kitchen torn to bits?" She raised an eyebrow as if in surprise. Her reaction reminded me of Sherlock's when he was feigning interest or excitement. He could mold his face like clay into whatever expression was needed to manipulate someone. He's certainly fooled me enough times.

Her face went from extreme animation back to her previous dullness.

Strange. What if this were no act? I wondered if she might not be on the spectrum. And what was up with that note? I couldn't help but find the whole thing highly suspicious behaviour.

"Follow me, please. I'll take you to where it happened," she said. 

It sure was a hike to get to the other side of the manor. As we went, she dutifully had us stop at each lavish portrait that lined the walls, told us who painted them and where each fell in the Frankenstein line as if she were a tourist guide and we the tourists.

As we walked, I noticed some blank spaces on the wall where more paintings had obviously once hung. She didn't say a word about them and blinked rapidly each time her eyes skipped across the barren spots or empty hooks on the walls. I didn't ask, thinking it possible that, like many titled families, they'd had to sell a few pieces along the way to make ends meet.

Of course she introduced us to Victor Frankenstein's portrait. He had a prominent place in the rather long hallway of Frankenstein history. He appeared a handsome older gentleman, but not one who fit the name—or, at least, my preconceptions about how he should look. The man on the wall resembled Father Christmas more than my imagination's portrait of Mary Shelley's mad doctor.

She also went into stolid detail about every piece of furniture. I couldn't imagine how she could ever sell tickets for a tour like this. I found it all fascinating, but Sherlock looked like he was asleep on his feet. He did manage to roll his eyes at me once or twice, but he gave no other signs of awakening until we reached our destination deep in the servants' wing: the main kitchens.

While the body had been removed, the crime scene remained undisturbed. It was indeed gruesome. Blood covered the floor.More was splattered against one wall of the kitchen and across the cupboards. On the chopping block, bits of flesh and bone coated the top and dripped over onto the floor. A large blood-covered cleaver rested in the center. Sherlock ignored that, instead dropping to his hands and knees to inspect the floor.

"And the body?" Sherlock asked.

She looked down at the note.

"We put it in the walk-in freezer."

My head shot up, but not before noticing the clotted hair next to the leg of the butcher block. I pointed to it.

"Poor Brutus," she said, her voice flat. She blinked. Again, she didn't seem nearly distraught enough for what she was describing. At all. I studied her closer for signs of shock. Her pupils were normal, breathing appeared regular, and I saw no pallor or sheen of cold sweat.Medically stable enough, then.

I knelt down to inspect the hair. Sherlock held up a bit of ripped flesh between his tweezers with his gloved hands. He bagged it and zipped the top with a flourish. How does he do that? He makes collecting evidence into some sort of game of being cool.

"Brutus?" I said. Irriation filled me. I turned to Sherlock. "He's a dog, isn't he? Brutus is a _dog_. Please tell me Brutus isn't a dog."

"Yes, a dog. A murdered dog. Robbed of the best years of his life. Really, John, you should be more empathetic. They've lost a close and cherished member of their family."

I looked at Marilyn Frankenstein._ Close? Cherished? _She didn't look at all choked up about it all.

"And the hand?" Sherlock asked.

I blinked at Sherlock. A hand? That would account for the amount of blood.

Marilyn Frankenstein referenced her note again. "Also in the freezer. Come, I'll show you." She stepped across the floor between pools of blood and gore. Sherlock and I followed.

"Have you called the police?" I asked. "Does Lestrade know?"

"We're a long way from his jurisdiction," Sherlock said.

"Whyever do we need police? We have Sherlock Holmes," she said simply, staring at her note. "The. Great. Detective," she read.

Marilyn took one last step and opened the deep-freeze door. The door gasped as the suction broke from the door gasket. A blast of cold air hit us as Sherlock pushed aside the insulation curtain that hung across the door for a quick inspection before we stepped inside. It occurred to me to regret giving up my jacket so freely. I pulled the sleeves of my jumper down over my hands.

Sherlock turned and gave me a wink before he stepped through and disappeared between the cloudy plastic strips that kept the cold inside. I followed, dodging the strips, but the long, cold sheets of plastic smacked me in the face.

I supposed Marilyn and her small staff didn't eat all that much. There was only a little frozen food inside, but a lot of empty boxes were stacked in one corner. Sherlock nodded to me and pointed to a shelf at eye level. Inside a gallon-sized ziplock bag was a hand. Other remains (or what was left) of Brutus were sealed inside about a dozen bags in assorted sizes placed two shelves above the hand. 

Before Sherlock could reach the cord to turn on the light to get a better look, a loud bang echoed and we were thrown into darkness.

I spun around and shoved the long sheets of ghostly plastic aside to pound on the freezer door. "Oi! Open the door!"

Nothing.

"Let us out," I demanded.

Still nothing.

My hands fumbled around the door until I found the handle. I gave it two solid pushes, then two more, but it wouldn't budge. My next move was to get a small running start and hurl my body against the bloody door while shouting obscenities.

With a click, Sherlock pulled the cord. And there was light.

"You can throw yourself against that door all you wish, but you aren't going to break it down. And shouting will not bring her back. She's not going to open it."

I rolled my aching shoulder and steadied my breath. "Sherlock? Why isn't she going to open the door?"

He turned away from me and squinted his eyes as if he were deep in thought. I knew better.

He took three long steps to the shelves and lifted the bag with grizzly hand in it between his gloved fingers.

"Why isn't she going to open the door?" I demanded. "Answer me." I rubbed my arms to get warm. I kicked myself again for relinquishing my jacket at the door. I narrowed my eyes at Sherlock. He still had his coat. The bastard.

"It's cold," I said.

"Of course it's cold, John. We are locked in a freezer." He placed the bag back on the shelf and spun around, facing me.

I glared even harder at Sherlock. Always keeping something from me. He knew why she'd shut the door. In fact, I was certain he'd expected it. And that made two people tonight who were reacting oddly.

"You still haven't answered me." I rocked back and forth on my feet, moving to keep warm.

"She doesn't remember. She has anterograde amnesia."

I wanted to slap myself in the head—or better yet, slap him in the head. So he _was_ keeping something from me.

I'd seen patients with this before. They were unable to store new memories, which explained the note and her obsessively referencing it. That's why she hadn't really presented a typical picture of shock. It also most likely explaining her staring up at the stairs. Her long-term memory expecting someone from her past to appear there. A parent, a sibling.

"But that doesn't explain why she shut the door. We were right in front of her when she shut the door!" I could hear myself getting shouty. I didn't care.

"Ah, but once we entered the freezer, we were obscured by the insulation curtain. She no longer saw us. She didn't remember we'd come here. All she saw was the freezer door open. She did what anyone would do upon seeing a freezer with the door open: she shut it."

"And nothing on her note told her that we were inside?"

"She knew we were expected from the note. She looked down at the note and thought we had already left. Or at least she thought it for a second, until she didn't remember we'd come at all. She's left the kitchen by now."

"It's cold in here," I repeated.

"Yes. I know. Unlike her memory, the freezer is working fine."

It all made sense. She could remember things that happened long ago—all the stories she was told about her home, the paintings, she could easily recall, but not the recent past.

"Wait," I said. I shivered and gritted my teeth. "You already knew what happened to the dog, didn't you? "

He ignored me.

"She will be back as soon as she finds the other note."

"What other note?" I took a breath of relief. So Sherlock did have a plan.

"The one I left on the stairs just in case we were out of her sight. There are instructions telling her we're locked inside the freezer and to let us out."

"Just when is she supposed to find this note?"

"When she retires for the evening, just as she always has as long as she's lived here. She will wait for us to arrive first, but she does have a routine that she's followed for years."

"Hmm, it's in her long term memory. But that's not much help if we're human ice lollies by the time she finds the note."

"We most certainly will not be. I estimate she will find the note in less than two hours. Maybe sooner, depending on how tiring today was for her."

"Let's hope she comes back for us. How much air do we have?"

"We have more than enough of an air supply. It's the cold that's a minor concern."

"Minor concern. Of course it's a minor concern, you have a coat."

"John, never fear: of course I shall share with you."

"Share? Since when do you share."

"I am hurt. We will be out here shortly. If not, I will have you call Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"And tell him we're locked in a walk-in freezer? I think I'll wait for Miss Frankenstein, thank you very much." I still pulled out my mobile. No reception. It wasn't even an option. I huffed and puffed into my hands to warm them.

"According to this," Sherlock tapped a thermometer on the wall, "it is -18 C. We'll need to keep our core temperature from dropping to dangerous levels. Come here, John."

I sluggishly walked over to him. Instead of wrapping his coat around me to share the warmth, he spun around and waltzed over to the other side of the freezer.

"Worry when you become tired and confused. But you are a doctor and I'm confident you'll recognize the signs of hypothermia." Sherlock grabbed some of the large empty boxes and began breaking them down. He handed me one and gestured for me to do the same. "Cardboard is an excellent insulator."

"I see. Tired and confused. Yeah. I was tired and confused before I stepped inside here. Even before I was LOCKED IN A FREEZER, Sherlock."

He kept on laying the flattened boxes on the floor. He punched out the bottom of two more large boxes and laid them end-to-end on top of the others.

Finished with his box project, Sherlock nodded for me to come nearer again. I inched closer. When I was at arms length, he reached out and pulled me to his chest, wrapping his Belstaff around me with him still inside.

He vigorously rubbed his leather-gloved hands over my back. "Body heat," he explained. "That's the key. Keep each other warm. I told you I would share."

He tucked my head under his chin. "John, your teeth are chattering. That and shivering are the first signs. But not serious ones, yet."

"Yet," I said.

He pulled me tighter against his body.

"Sherlock? What are we doing?"

"Getting warm."

But that was not what was happening. Sherlock removed the warmth of his arms and coat from around me. Instead, he got on his hands and knees and shimmied inside the box. That was the second time today I'd seen his arse in the air.

Sherlock stuck his head out the other side and motioned to me. "Come, John. It'll be much warmer in here with me."

It was brutally cold and I was shivering. When in survival mode, a person doesn't always question the whys and what-fors. But with Sherlock, it's necessary if you do want to survive until tomorrow to ask those very questions.

Sherlock left Marilyn a note. He left it knowing that she would most likely shut us in here. Why did he let her do that?

"Is this some sort of bloody experiment?" I asked.

"No, not an experiment. Please, John, talking lowers your core temperature. Come on now, get inside the box."

Sherlock dragged me in on top of him and cocooned us together inside his Belstaff. Our bodies were...how shall I say? Lined up.

I was confused by what was happening. I knew keeping warm was imperative, and Sherlock was serious about warming us. But this whole situation had been completely manipulated by him. I absolutely could not fathom his motives. I had a difficult time believing this was simply a ruse on his part to get us close. No, that was just something I wanted, not something Sherlock would ever have come up with.

I wondered if the cold were affecting my perception. Certainly Sherlock couldn't be making a move on me?

"Oatmeal jumper," Sherlock murmured into my neck.

"What was that?" I asked.

"You're wearing your oatmeal jumper," he murmured. "Sharing."

As his hands returned to massaging my back, his ministrations felt more like a caress. I was more and more convinced that this was me going into cold-induced delirium. Sherlock could not be making overt sexual advances, yet my senses told me it was happening. His hands were generating a warmth in places far removed from my back, and from the evidence pushing alongside mine in our trousers, the same could be said of Sherlock.

My teeth were no longer chattering from cold. Instead I was clamping my lips together with my teeth to keep myself from crying out at the wonderful friction.

Despite the growing evidence, I found it difficult to believe that Sherlock would pick such an unlikely spot for a tryst. Why not a warm room? With a bed? Even a locked broom closet would be better than this.

"You need to get your hands warm. Here," Sherlock said. He removed his hands from my back and held my hands in his, warming them. He gently tugged them between us in an effort to keep them warm—or so I thought. But he pulled them lower and lower still, until they came to rest on Sherlock's...cock.

Okay. Yeah. No mistaking his intent anymore.

I decided I might as well join in with the whole Sherlock warming up program and began nipping at his long neck. Even with Sherlock's enthusiastic ministrations, my teeth began to chatter again.

"Shouldn't she find that note soon?" I squeezed his cock. His hands were still there, long nimble fingers rubbing the length of me.

Sherlock's mouth was close to mine, almost touching.

"What note?" Sherlock whispered. His lips just brushed against mine.

"The note you left her." I groaned as he pulled at my length.

"Oh, that." He covered my mouth with his.

I was kissing Sherlock. The light from the bulb overhead filtered into our boxes just enough to see his face. God! I was kissing Sherlock!

I was also rutting against him. I could feel my cock leaking against his hand.

A loud click.

"Hello? Are you in there?" Marilyn's voice filled the cooler.

"Yes!" I barely choked out.

"Hello?" she called again. "Hello?"

And she shut the door.

I tried to scramble out of the boxes, but Sherlock had a tight hold on me with his Belstaff.

The door whooshed open again and the plastic sheets flapped.

"Hello?" Marilyn called again. It was like some slapstick comedy.

"Yes!" I yelled. "Sherlock, let me go."

"I don't ever want to let you go," he said.

"Hang on to that sentiment. We can continue this some place else. Preferably someplace warmer."

"Hello?" Marliyn called and shut the door.

"Damn," I said. Giddily I wondered whether there were such a thing as a slapstick tragedy.

I looked down at Sherlock. His eyes were squeezed tight and he was shaking. I wasn't sure if it was from laying on the cold floor or because he was upset.

"But these circumstances are necessary. With no compelling urgency..." Sherlock said.

I was halfway out of the box when the door cracked open again.

"Hello?"

"Marilyn," I said. "Do _not_ shut the door."

"Do not shut the door," she parroted. "The note says that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are trapped inside the walk-in cooler, and I must open the door. The door is open."

"Good. Leave it open," I instructed.

"John, no. Only a little longer," he called from behind me as I crawled toward Marilyn. The cold of the freezer floor burned my hands through the cuffs of my jumper sleeves.

"Leave. It. Open." I threw my arms out, but she still couldn't see me on the floor behind the curtain. The whoosh of the door slamming again made me even colder.

"John, come back. Without a life or death situation, our union will never come to pass." He wasn't making much sense. Or maybe he was just too hard to understand with his teeth chattering.

All the evidence before me (and behind) led me to believe that he was the one who was delirious. Mutual hand jobs inside a walk-in freezer for warmth? Yet he was clearly in full possession of his bizarre but clever brains. This was planned.

And me? Not delirious, but Sherlock was right. I am an idiot.

I climbed to my feet and reached for Sherlock's hand.

"Our union is inevitable," I said. "Half of the world thinks we've been shagging all along. Why either of us would think we'd end up differently, I don't know. Now, get the hell out of the box. We can slip into something more comfortable later."

I gave him a wink.

He took my hand and crawled out so quickly that I wondered if all the shivering and shaking had been an act. I pulled him up.

The door swung open.

This time it was Sherlock who stopped Marilyn. With his foot in the door.

Twenty minutes later and each with a cup of tea, we sat in the parlor as Sherlock explained to Marilyn whose hand was in the freezer and why Brutus was killed.

"It was a double homicide," Sherlock announced, not that Marilyn would ever remember.

I looked at Sherlock expectantly as I took another sip of my tea.

"You investigated after you heard Brutus barking and growling in the kitchen," he began. "As you neared the kitchen, those barks and growls became yelps and whimpers. You opened the door to find a grizzly sight: a man standing in the kitchen with the butcher's cleaver in hand, poor Brutus hacked to bits."

Marilyn covered her mouth with her hand.

"Upon seeing you, he dropped the cleaver on the butcher block. Terrified of the murderous stranger in your home, you picked up the cleaver and swung it, severing his hand." 

She shook her head in disbelief.

"It was a surprise to him, especially since he was your lover."

"That's ridiculous. I have no lover!"

"Oh, but you do. He comes to you almost every night with a note in your own handwriting. Here it is." Sherlock reached into the pocket of his Belstaff and handed her a note. Her lips moved as she read it.

"It states that he is your beloved."

He said this as much for my ears as for hers. I was stunned—almost as stunned as Marilyn. 

"As it states in your note, your love was forbidden and kept a secret from your disapproving parents. This was the story that your lover told you long ago and had you write down."

"I loved him?" she asked.

"That I do cannot know. But it is a fact that he had been stealing from the family and selling your family's legacy. He started with small items wouldn't be noticed missing. Then went on to other valuables, such as silver tea trays." Sherlock reached out and touched the tray that held our now-empty tea pot. "This is a cheap knock-off. Not what I'd expect of your family. 

"Still, it wasn't enough. He became greedy. He took artwork. To cover the thefts and explain the missing pieces, he had you write a note to your father."

I sat forward, waiting for what was to come next.

"Your note to your father stated that you had sold them along with other pieces to make ends meet. But none of this made sense to your father. He knew it wasn't true, but most of all, he knew that they weren't your own words. He decided to stay here with you, and caught you and your lover together."

"You father didn't want a scandal. He believed threats of bringing charges against the thief would be enough to keep him from returning. Sadly, greed and stupidity have no bounds. You lover returned to you. Last night, your father surprised him sneaking in through the back to the kitchen. He hit your father over the head and picked up the cleaver to do more serious damage. Brutus bravely came to the rescue. And that was when you came in."

Sherlock took a breath and continued.

"At some point he sat the cleaver down as he tried to explain to you that you were lovers. You couldn't see your father, since his unconscious body was obscured behind the butcher block. All you saw was Brutus's mangled body. You picked up the cleaver and somehow managed to cut off your lover's hand. He bled to death on the floor next to your father."

"But where is his body?'

"It was behind the boxes in the freezer. That was why they were all piled up in the corner."

"And my father. Where is Daddy?"

"He still has not regained consciousness. You are right that my brother owed your father a debt. He felt that you should know this even though in a few minutes you will remember none of it. He'll send you a written report tomorrow, with instructions to place it on your bedside table where you'll discover it regularly."

\--------

As we walked back out across the moors, I could hear the helicopter returning. How ever does Mycroft know these things?

"One point I don't get is that she said when we first got here that her father had contacted Mycroft."

"Not her father, her brother. She gets them confused. He looks like her father did when he was younger. Her brother came to check on their father when he didn't return home. By that time his father had been unconscious for some time. It seems interfering brothers do hold some useful purpose."

"It's sad that she was in love and forgot it every day," I said.

"She was in love with a sociopath. It might have been a blessing."

I stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

"No. You're not doing that. You're not. Don't try to put up that wall. You are no sociopath."

"Yet I can't say it," Sherlock said.

"Neither can I."

"I've tried to so many times."

"Look," I said. The roar of the chopper made me shout over the noise. "I want us to be together. We don't need a life or death situation to know that I want you and you want me. It's a fact. You understand facts."

"John. Give me a moment. I can say the words." Even with his resonant, deep voice he had to shout it. His coat whipped around him.

He took my hand. "I...I love you," he barked out.

"This isn't some Halloween trick?" I asked.

"No, John." He leaned closer, his mouth next to my ear. "I do love you."

"In that case..." I grabbed the front of his Belstaff with my other hand and pulled his lips down to mine. They tasted like tea and like hope.

"I love you too."

\------------------------

_From the Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson_

_Post Private_

_01 November 2019_

And that's how I ended up whisked off to the British countryside into a real-life Gothic romance with Sherlock Holmes on All Hallows' Eve. I never would have believed we'd end up saying those three words to each other. Or end up in bed. Or hold hands.

Sherlock's posh sheets are nice, but I love how he smiles up at me when we hold hands. Sherlock Holmes. I want to hold his hand and kiss those lips every day of my life.

In fact, I know I will.


End file.
